


A Ministerial Appointment

by magog_83



Series: Meeting the Minister [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magog_83/pseuds/magog_83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t many Prime Ministers who got the opportunity to broker relations between the wizarding and Muggle worlds and Arthur felt he had a responsibility to give it his best shot, however much therapy he might need afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ministerial Appointment

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Meeting the Minister](http://magog-83.livejournal.com/28717.html), based on [this](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/2936.html?thread=1267576#t1267576) brilliant prompt on the kinkmeme, _The new Muggle Prime Minister meets the Minister for Magic._
> 
> Thanks to archaeologist_d and Vensre!

On Tuesday evening, at precisely two minutes to seven, Arthur was standing in his office, tugging his tie straight for what was possibly the tenth time and watching the fireplace nervously. He wasn’t even sure Merlin would be arriving through the fireplace (a phrase Arthur had never thought he would use); the large and rather long-suffering owl which had surprised him the day before had carried a letter which merely said Merlin would “collect him” from Downing Street at 7pm for a “diplomatic meeting,” which Arthur wasn’t sure counted as being entirely non-political, but then again owls weren’t exactly Her Majesty’s Royal Mail either, so he had decided to just go with it. Arthur smoothed his tie once more and looked at the letter, sitting incongruously on his desk. The envelope looked somewhat out of place, being written in what was evidently Merlin’s favourite green, and bearing the legend, ARTHUR PENDRAGON. HIS DESK, PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE (Prime Minister seemed to have been written with several quite unnecessary flourishes), DOWNING STREET, MUGGLE LONDON, ENGLAND. Muggle, Arthur now knew, meant someone without magic. Merlin’s handbook had had a whole section on Muggles which emphasised the long history of wizard-Muggle co-operation and how their differences had never stopped them finding love ‘across the divide’ - which Arthur had thought was rather irrelevant to the discussion at hand.

But regardless of any ‘co-operation’ that might have gone on in the past, Arthur was fairly certain that he was not going to be travelling through any magical fireplaces. There had to be a line drawn somewhere and Arthur was drawing it there. Or at least he thought he was. Deciding his tie was just going to have to do, Arthur checked the clock again and stared into the fireplace, trying to see the first sign of movement behind the flames. He had had the fireplace lit of course, since there were definitely flames the last time (and despite the strange look he had received, it was July after all), but it was only now occurring to him that maybe they had been magical flames, and that possibly he was on the verge of setting fire to the Minister of Magic and starting a serious diplomatic incident.

“Shit!” said Arthur, who was famed for his inspirational way with words. He crouched down, leaning as close to the flames as he dared without setting fire to his tie. “Uh... Merlin?” There was a loud snort from the corner of the room and Arthur turned his head just long enough to glare at Edwin, who had been pretending to read for the past week whilst passing judgement on Arthur’s prime ministerial skills through a series of snorts, mutters and well placed eye rolls (although Arthur had only caught him doing that once).

Arthur turned back, getting down on his hands and knees as he peered into the depths of the fireplace, trying to work out if that was a dark cloak he could see, or a particularly interesting shaped piece of wood.

It was unfortunate that Morgana chose that exact moment to open the door (without knocking) and sweep into his office. There was a loaded pause. Then Morgana smiled, all too sweetly. “Really Arthur, if you were trying to find a means to end it all, I can think of far more amusing ways.”

Arthur stood up hastily, scowling. “I was just... I was stoking the fire.” Morgana raised one perfect eyebrow. “Was there something you wanted?” He snapped crossly.

Worryingly, Morgana’s smile turned into a full smirk. “Actually yes, there is a very good looking young man at the front door asking for you. I told him he probably had the wrong house, but he informed me he had exact directions to 10 Downing Street, which he did, written on his hand, and that he was here to take you out for your favourite food in a perfectly open and legal manner.” Her smirk turned distinctly evil as Arthur felt his treacherous face grow warmer. “I must say, I am most intrigued by what he would consider to be an illegal manner, but you can tell me all about it later. Right now I suggest you go down and speak to him, and to the police as well. They seem rather upset that someone managed to bypass all the security measures and ring the doorbell, as it were.”

Arthur glared at her insufferably smug face, then muttered something about it being a “diplomatic meeting” as he pushed past her, hurrying down the wood lined corridor as her heels clicked in his wake. He could already hear the crackle of police radios and see the fluorescent jackets of his security staff as they huddled together, talking in hushed tones and casting worried glances off to one side. Arthur thought he might be able to guess what, or rather who, they were looking at.

“Arthur!” Merlin said, as soon as Arthur walked into the entrance hall, proving him right. He sounded extremely relieved, which probably had something to do with the trio of high level security guards surrounding him. It took Arthur a moment to reply, taken aback as he was by the sight of Merlin in what looked to be an extremely normal and well fitted suit. True, he seemed to be wearing a blue tie covered in large gold balls with wings, but Arthur was prepared to overlook that since he’d half expected Merlin to arrive in a pointy hat and cloak.

“There you are, Merlin,” Arthur said, pulling himself together and doing his best to make it sound like this was all perfectly normal before his over-zealous guards could cart the Minister for Magic away in the back of a police van. “I must have forgotten to tell security to expect you.”

He immediately wished he hadn’t, as Merlin’s face fell. “That is,” Arthur amended quickly, “I assumed you might use a _different_ entrance.”

“Oh,” said Merlin, _“Oh,”_ He smiled, happy once more. “No, I thought you would prefer it if I didn’t do anything, you know,” he wiggled his fingers in what he evidently thought was a subtle fashion, “unusual.”

Given that the entrance hall was filled with police and security staff making urgent phone calls and Morgana had just settled herself comfortably on a nearby chair and was texting furiously (probably to Gwen), Arthur thought that comment didn’t even deserve a response.

“Shall we go?” Merlin announced brightly, ignoring the scandalised looks of the security team. Arthur only wished he had Merlin’s optimism; the idea that his security team and police escort were just going to let him take off for the evening (he hoped not literally) with a complete stranger who had just evaded their best security precautions was unlikely, to say the least.

He was just wondering how to explain this to Merlin, who was looking hopefully at his watch, when the door to the entrance hall burst open and Lance du Lac, his Head of Security, raced in, gun at the ready, only to nearly fall over an occasional table when he saw Merlin standing there.

“I can explain!” said Arthur, rather desperately. Somewhere by the wall, Morgana stopped texting and snapped a photo instead.

“Hello Lance,” said Merlin.

“It’s not what it— Wait, what?” Arthur stopped babbling and stared, first at Merlin then, accusingly, at Lance. “You’ve met?”

“Er...” said Lance.

* * *

Barely five minutes later, Arthur was standing on the front steps of 10 Downing Street feeling rather shell shocked as Merlin reminded Lance he still needed to send back an Owl about the ministry summer barbeque and at least ten highly trained security men, three police officers and Morgana watched them and practically burned with curiosity. Not that Arthur was much concerned with that, he was still stuck on the fact that _Lancelot was a wizard._ Cricket playing, Doctor Who watching Lance could do spells and probably had a pointy hat, broomstick and cloak and all the rest of the things Merlin had labelled on his Diagram Of An Average Wizard (Not To Scale) in the handbook. First Gaius, then Elvina, then Lance, this was getting ridiculous! Suddenly Arthur was struck with a horrible thought.

“Hang on! Is everyone a _you know_ except me?” He thought he heard Lance snort before the door to 10 Downing Street was shut firmly in his face, leaving him alone with the Minister for Magic and glaring rather indignantly at a door knocker.

“Oh no,” the Minister was saying, walking down the steps and then waiting for Arthur to finally stop glaring and catch up. “Wizards and witches are much rarer than Muggles.”

Arthur didn’t know whether to feel disappointed that he wasn’t entirely living in a Disney film, or relieved that this probably ruled out Morgana - although he wouldn’t have put the broomstick and pointy hat past her anyway. Unfortunately, Merlin seemed to take his silence as something else.

“Not that Muggles are just ordinary!” he said, looking horrified that Arthur might have assumed he meant such a thing. “I mean, I don’t think Muggles are ordinary, I like Muggles. Not all Muggles obviously, but, you know, some especially.” Merlin tugged at his shirt collar in a way that made Arthur look at his neck, before he reminded himself that he was here primarily on Diplomatic Business and he could not spend his evening admiring the neck of a fellow Political Leader, however smooth and irresistible it might look.

Arthur took refuge in a small cough (it always worked in Parliamentary debates). “Right,” he said, trying to bring the evening back to its proper schedule. “Since you’re the wizard and I’m not, I hope you have directions for where we’re going.”

Merlin was still looking worried that he’d mortally offended Arthur, so Arthur added a reassuring smile, and then immediately wished he hadn’t when Merlin’s answering smile was so bright he found himself feeling a little breathless (it must be the heat).

“Don’t worry, I have it all worked out.” Merlin said, sounding cheerful again. “We’re going to apparate! I wanted to bring the magic carpet but Hermione said I should keep it simple on a first... er, diplomatic meeting.” Merlin blushed, and hurried on. “I’m going to have to hold onto you for this bit. Sorry.”

The ‘sorry’ appeared to be purely a formality however, as Merlin seized Arthur’s hand firmly before he could even respond, curling his fingers around Arthur’s and stepping closer until he was practically leaning against him. Arthur thought he should probably object to this sort of behaviour (in the street!) but it was a Diplomatic Meeting after all, and Arthur could certainly put up with Merlin’s warmth all down his right side, and the way he could feel his slightly curling hair brushing against his (red) face, for the Good of His Country.

“Ok,” he said, somewhat unsteadily. “What do we—”

It was then Arthur felt a violent tug on his arm and with a suddenness that took his breath away the street and the houses were gone in a dizzying, whirling swirl of colour and sensation. It was possible he let out an extremely undignified noise, but he fully planned to deny it should Merlin raise the subject. Then, with equal abruptness, his feet slammed back onto solid ground and he staggered, gasping, his stomach in knots. Fortunately, Merlin seemed more than happy to hold onto him. In fact, Arthur probably didn’t need him to hold on _quite_ so tightly, or to start rubbing his back again (he did appear to have a bit of a thing for back rubs).

Arthur tugged his hand free (it took several attempts) and tried to straighten his tie and suit jacket while not falling over on the pavement.

“Are you ok?” Merlin was asking, peering at him in concern. Then to Arthur’s shock (and really, that shouldn’t have been possible after the week he’d had), Merlin reached into what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary trouser pocket and pulled out a bottle of water and a folding stool that looked rather like the ones his father used to take hiking, only with a seat cover embroidered with a large dragon that Uther wouldn’t have countenanced for a second. With a few mutters, Merlin managed to yank open the legs and set it on the cobbles, before he pushed Arthur down onto it and solicitously offered him the water bottle. “There, how do you feel?”

“I feel perfectly well!” The stool wobbled alarmingly as Arthur sat down. “You don’t have to-” It was at that moment Merlin produced a bright orange handkerchief as well and looked dangerously close to mopping Arthur’s brow. It was this, even more than the health and safety nightmare of the stool, that caused Arthur to leap back to his feet, staying upright by sheer force of will and stepping out of Merlin’s reach (Merlin looked terribly disappointed). “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin asked, still hovering, hankie and water in hand. “I remember the first time I disapparated, I left one of my ears in the Great Hall and then threw up all over Professor McGonagall’s shoes.”

“You left your _ear?_ ” Arthur sputtered, barely resisting the urge to begin an immediate inventory of his body parts.

“Only temporarily,” said Merlin. “We got it back afterwards.”

Arthur wasn’t sure how reassuring that actually was, but he was saved from answering by footsteps on the cobbles and a voice loudly exclaiming. “Minister!” before a plump middle aged lady was upon them, floury apron tied around her waist and brandishing a wand. “Is everything all right? We heard a commotion.”

“Oh yes,” said Merlin at once, and the lady lowered her wand, looking relieved. “Everything’s fine, it was Arthur’s first time apparating.” He beamed proudly at Arthur.

“It was just a little unexpected,” Arthur said, trying and failing not to sound peevish - honestly, there was no need to treat him like he was a fainting teen at a Justin Bieber concert.

“I’m sure,” said the lady with a sympathetic glance that mollified Arthur somewhat. Then she ruined it by turning to Merlin and adding, “I do hope your young man isn’t feeling too unwell to eat.”

“I’m not—” began Arthur.

“I think he’s ok now,” said Merlin seriously, completely ignoring Arthur’s interjection as he gathered up his dragon-embroidered stool. “He just needed a sit down.”

“I most certainly did not!”

“Well, come in, come in,” the lady said, all smiles, and really, was Arthur invisible now? As Leader of his Party and Prime Minister for an entire fortnight he was not used to being ignored and if he had any idea where the hell he was, he might very well have marched off there and then. Or at least he would if Merlin hadn’t turned around, stool, water bottle and ridiculous hanky under his arm, looking slightly nervous in a way that was absolutely _not_ endearing. In the slightest.

“I hope you like this place, it’s the best Italian in London.”

The lady, who Arthur concluded must be the proprietress, looked quite overcome by this compliment, leaving Arthur no choice but to agree (it was only polite) and allow Merlin to hold the door open for him, nearly stabbing Arthur twice with the legs of the stool before Arthur finally made it safely through, Merlin apologising after him.

The door led to a narrow, wood panelled, hall, quite innocuous in its appearance, right down to the cheerfully-coloured but slightly faded runner on the linoleum. It was hardly the kind of decor Arthur would have associated with the best Italian in London, but then again he wouldn’t have associated wands with Italian restaurant owners either, so he was fairly sure this must be a wizarding restaurant. In which case, Arthur would just be grateful not to find the cutlery dancing around and woodland animals bringing him his starter. The lady disappeared through a doorway at the end of the hall, and Arthur took a deep breath before he followed.

There was a brief moment of darkness and then Arthur stopped so suddenly that Merlin walked straight into him. “Is this... Is this _Italy?_ ” Arthur hissed, taking in the golden evening sunshine, and the view of bleached white cobbles and red tiled roofs stretching away into the distance in a carpet of greens and browns.

“What?” said Merlin, sounding like Arthur was being utterly ridiculous. “Of course not! Only that half is in Italy,” he pointed to the veranda of the red tiled house and the view beyond. “This part is in London.”

“Right,” said Arthur faintly.

“Unless you wanted to go to Italy?” Merlin said, looking anxious.

“I haven’t got my passport,” said Arthur, and then sat down rather quickly in a wrought iron chair nearby, staring in bemusement as a fat chicken wandered past and somewhere in the distance church bells started pealing.

“I don’t think that’s our table,” said Merlin, and Arthur suspected the hanky and water bottle might be about to make a reappearance. “I asked Rosa for one with a nice view of the lake.”

“There’s a lake?”

“Yes, and we might see the mermaids if we’re lucky.”

“Mermaids,” Arthur repeated.

“Would you like some wine?” The lady, Rosa, had reappeared with a printed list in hand.

“God yes,” said Arthur.

Afterwards, Arthur had no idea what exactly he had ordered, only that it had definitely been alcoholic. Very alcoholic. As Rosa bustled off to the bar (which seemed to be through a wooden trellis, threaded with vines, and in the shadow of an olive tree), Merlin stood awkwardly by, managing to stay silent for all of ten seconds before, “Shall we find our table?”

“Why not,” said Arthur, watching the chicken scratching in the authentic Italian dirt.

Merlin waited a few seconds longer then, seeming to realise Arthur wasn’t going to actually move anytime soon, tugged lightly on his arm until he was standing enough to push him into the room fully and across the floor in the direction of a stone archway. Once through it, Arthur was relieved to find himself in an actual room, albeit one with doors wide open onto a veranda and a breeze moving the white curtains, the warm air heavy with the scent of flowers. Their table, and Arthur guessed this must be their table because the two place cards read THE MINISTER and HIS ~~YOUNG MAN~~ DIPLOMATIC GUEST, was against one of the walls, below a large oil painting of what looked like a _moving_ Italian carnival scene and with an unimpeded view across the room and through the doors to the veranda and what Arthur saw then was the promised lake (fortunately for his sanity, the mermaids seemed to be taking a break). Merlin prodded him into the seat with the best view, before he pulled out his own chair opposite and seated himself, picking up a menu and beaming at Arthur.

“This is nice, isn’t it.”

‘Nice’ was not exactly the word Arthur would have chosen for the evening he’d had so far. He didn’t even want to imagine how many missed calls he had from Morgana by this point, his Head of Security could apparently turn him into a toad and there might well be an international border between him and the toilets. He guessed Rosa must count mind-reading among her magical skills, because she chose just the right moment to arrive at their table with some breadsticks and a very welcome bottle of red wine. Arthur skipped the wine tasting and went straight for the full glass, downing it with the kind of enthusiasm he had only seen before in the elderly Speaker of the House, Winston ‘six sherries’ Dunton-Smyth.

Merlin put down the menu and was trying to peer at the label on the bottle, still clutched tightly in Arthur’s hand. “I haven’t tried wine before, I usually just have Butterbeer - does it taste alright?”

“Yes,” Arthur managed after a brief cough. Perhaps he wasn’t up to the stamina of Winston ‘six sherries’ quite yet, but he had to admit the stuff had steadied his nerves. After all, it wasn’t many Prime Ministers who got the opportunity to informally broker relations between the wizarding and Muggle worlds and Arthur felt he had a responsibility to give it his best shot, however much therapy he might need afterwards. In fact, Gaius had made a particular point of talking about how unusual this was, and then gone on about ‘codes of conduct’ or something similar, and how this sort of thing would never have happened in his day (which really just emphasised the unique position Arthur was in). “Did you, er, want some?” Apparently magic induced shock had a terrible effect on his manners.

“Yes please,” said Merlin, holding out his glass for Arthur to pour. Then after another hesitant look between the glass and Arthur, he gulped in all down in one go, inducing such a coughing fit that Rosa actually ran out from the kitchens, followed by a man who was presumably the chef, along with a young woman and what Arthur could only describe as a green creature with pointy ears wearing a multi-coloured tea towel and a sun hat.

By the time Merlin had been persuaded to drink some water and had calmed down slightly (and when had Arthur got up from his chair and rushed round the table? It could only be Sorcery), Rosa was fanning herself in relief with one of the Dessert Menus, the chef was examining the wine bottle for ‘dark magic’ and the occupants of the carnival painting were arguing over whether the red was suitable with Italian food in the first place. “Sorry!” Merlin coughed a little more, but waved away Rosa’s offer of more water. “I’m ok, really. I just didn’t expect it to taste like that.”

“You weren’t supposed to drink the whole glass at once!” Arthur said, feeling most put out and possibly a bit more worried than was strictly necessary.

Merlin looked at him, eyes still watering. “Isn’t it a Muggle custom?”

“Of course it isn’t a-” Arthur stopped, as an innkeeper in the painting sniggered loudly and Merlin’s face went red with embarrassment. He could even feel Rosa glaring at him. “That is...” He tried again. “Not... Um, not your first time anyway. Most Muggles, er, build up to it.” It didn’t sound terribly convincing to Arthur, but Merlin looked enormously relieved and Rosa winked at him, and gave him an approving pat on the shoulder as she ushered him back to his chair, and then shooed the spectators back to the kitchen (the green creature bowed first). Arthur made a mental note to remember this particular ‘custom’ in case Merlin ever joined him at any Muggle functions. Not that Arthur was planning to invite Merlin to any Muggle functions. Obviously.

He went to take a fortifying gulp of wine before remembering he’d drained the glass, and was forced to pour himself some more, which he sipped _slowly_ this time.

“Sorry about that,” said Merlin, still looking a bit flushed. “I’ll have to practice a bit more.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” said Arthur, because that was exactly what his father always said about his vintage Champagne collection, especially when Morgana had tried some when she was fourteen and declared it tasted like floor cleaner.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Now the immediate drama was over, Arthur found himself feeling a little more mellow, the result no doubt of his sudden descent into nervous alcoholism. There remained the steady buzz of excitement beneath his skin (he _was_ in a magical Italian restaurant, his brain helpfully reminded him), but he had survived so far unscathed and really, how strange could an Italian meal be?

“I particularly recommend the Penne al Forno,” said a small voice in his ear, and Arthur started violently as he turned to see a bishop sitting on an upturned barrel in the corner of the painting, reading Arthur’s menu over his shoulder (which Arthur couldn’t help but note was terribly bad manners, especially from a man of the Church).

“What’s the Bolognese like?” asked Merlin, as if this was all perfectly normal, which it probably _was_ if your name was Merlin, or Edwin for that matter.

“Plenty of tomato,” the bishop said. “I understand it’s an old family recipe and a particular favourite here.”

“That’s what I’m going to have then,” said Merlin, decisively. He looked up, “What about you, Arthur?”

“Er...” Arthur had to admit he was rather partial to Penne al Forno, even if he was naturally inclined to treat recommendations from oil paintings with suspicion.

“I know you love Penne al Forno.” Merlin put in helpfully. “You cooked it on Saturday Kitchen last September, do you remember?”

Arthur had a vague recollection of his team deciding he needed a more ‘approachable’ image and forcing him onto some god-awful cooking programme. Not that he would have expected that to be a favourite of the magical community. “You watch Saturday Kitchen?”

“Well, only that one. Hermione keeps a television and she let me watch it at her flat.” Merlin looked extremely pleased with himself. “I thought you were the best cook on there. The other man was rubbish.”

Now he came to think of it, Arthur supposed his dish _had_ turned out pretty well, and the other man (some game show host or other) had used far too much garlic. “Penne al Forno for me then,” he said, earning a smile from Merlin and a smug look from the miniature bishop that Arthur did his best to ignore.

Apparently just deciding on their meals out loud was enough to summon Rosa from the kitchens to whisk away their menus and promise them only the very best Bolognese and Al Forno for the Minister and his guest. Then she waved her wand and a basket of bread sticks appeared between them on the table, along with a candle “for atmosphere.”

Arthur stared at the candle for a moment and then decided he really did have to ask, however awkward, because it was always best to know what kind of function you were attending. “Merlin, this isn’t...” Merlin looked at him. “I mean, this is a... a diplomatic meeting, right?”

“Of course,” said Merlin, wide eyed. Arthur suddenly felt Merlin’s right leg jiggling up and down under the table. “What else would it be?”

The soft strains of a violin started up somewhere, interspersed with the clucking of the wandering chicken. Arthur looked round, but rather oddly the sound of the violin seemed to fade away whenever he did so. “Well, ok then,” he said at last, absolutely not feeling disappointed in the slightest, as he turned back to the table - wait, when had it got darker? It seemed that in the time it had taken Arthur to check for stealth violins and get eyeballed by a chicken, the evening sunlight had mellowed enough for the single candle to cast a soft golden glow over the table. Also, it might just be Arthur, but he was sure there had been less wine.

“Didn’t we drink more than that?” he said, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.

“I don’t think so,” said Merlin. “I think it always looked like that.”

Arthur frowned. “But we’ve had two and a half glasses.”

“Did you want to talk about some diplomacy?” Arthur blinked in surprise as the wine bottle was shunted suddenly out of his eye line by a large red notepad that had appeared on the table top, emblazoned with the words, A JOTTER TO JOG THE MEMORY: IT REMEMBERS SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO. “I wrote down some ideas,” Merlin went on, and Arthur couldn’t help but notice that his left leg had started jiggling too.

“Oh, right,” said Arthur, slightly wrong-footed by the sudden change of subject. Somewhere behind them the violin started up softly once more. “I, uh, had some ideas too.” Which he had, when he hadn’t been googling ‘Merlin’ (in a non-stalkery way of course) and ‘stress induced magical hallucinations’ (because it never hurt to be sure). Unfortunately, in their dramatic exit from Downing Street he had forgotten to bring his planner, but his fear of being thought unprofessional lasted only as long as it took Merlin to open his jotter and have ‘DON’T FORGET YOUR MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY!’ screeched at them from the first page.

“Oops,” said Merlin, ears going red. “I forgot that was in there.” He flicked rapidly through a few more pages, affording Arthur brief glimpses of To Do lists and timetables jostling for attention, and a heavily annotated page intriguingly titled ‘THINGS YOU CAN TALK ABOUT’ which Merlin turned so quickly he almost tore the corner off. He finally stopped on a double page; on the left was written TO DO. Followed by 1) TALK TO GNOMES. 2) TIDY OFFICE. 3) FIND BEST TIE. 4) COMB HAIR. On the right, there was the neat heading, DIPLOMATIC IDEAS, written in bright green, with several underlinings, a numbered list below and some pencil drawn gnomes frolicking in the margins (one of them appeared to be stealing all the commas). “Here we are,” said Merlin, smoothing the page a couple of times.

“Are those... gnomes?” Arthur asked, before he could stop himself.

Merlin looked at the page, as if noticing them for the first time. One of the gnomes stopped stockpiling punctuation and shook a not-very-threatening fist at him. “I must have been doodling this afternoon,” Merlin said, looking surprised. “I had a meeting with the ones in my garden at 3.”

Arthur remembered Merlin saying something about a gnome protest at their eventful meeting the week before. “Did you, er, sort out their protest then?” He asked, because it was only polite.

Merlin looked thrilled that Arthur had remembered. “Oh yes, it was all quite uneventful really, they just made some banners and marched around the patio for a while, and then I went out and took them some butterbeer and we agreed on a trial period for them living behind the shed and not digging up the flowerbeds.”

 _“Gnomes_ made banners?”

“Well,” said Merlin. “I say banners, it was more like bits of paper with sad faces drawn on them but they were very persuasive.”

Merlin, Arthur decided at that moment, would be hopeless with dealing with deputations to Downing Street and the endless petitions presented to the Prime Minister. Some of those had actual words and reasoned arguments, in addition to very persuasive pictures. Then again, he didn’t have them marching on his own patio so perhaps he should give Merlin the benefit of the doubt on that front.

“Anyway,” Merlin said, with a fond smile at the gnomes who were busy making off with his last remaining apostrophe. “I would love to hear your ideas first, I’m sure they’re all very good.” He looked expectantly at Arthur, who felt rather like he did at his party conferences when everyone was waiting for him to say something brilliant and devastating and Arthur was just worried he’d worn the wrong shirt, or brought his shopping list instead of his speech notes. In this case, he wished he’d at least remembered his planner.

In the absence of his planner, Arthur starting fiddling with a bread stick. “Well, I’ve thinking a lot about wizard-Muggle relations.”

“The boy works fast!” came a loud voice from the painting, causing Arthur to accidentally snap the bread stick in half.

“I beg your pardon?” Arthur snapped, feeling his face heat at the frankly _outrageous_ implication as he glared at an elderly reveller brandishing an ear trumpet.

“In my day, we liked to walk out a bit first,” boomed the reveller, ignoring Arthur completely as he plonked himself down by the bishop, looking like he’d settled in for the evening. “My good wife and I walked out for nigh on a twelve month before I—”

“I’m not talking about-” Arthur stopped and took a deep breath. He had done quite a lot of odd things that day, but he flatly refused to add arguing with a painting. Resolutely, he turned back to Merlin who, Arthur couldn’t help but notice, had gone entirely red, right up to his ears. “What I meant was, I think relations could be improved—”

“Having trouble, are you boy?” his unrepentant eavesdropper cut in, in the same stentorian tones. “I know a few spells for that sort of thing.”

“I had some ideas,” Arthur went on, doggedly.

“Imagination! I like it!” the old man was nodding approvingly. “Sometimes you need to be willing to change, to take risks!”

“Ideas about how people might see us—”

“Good lord boy! There’s risk taking and then there’s public decency!”

“Do you mind!” Arthur had had just about enough. He hadn’t felt this embarrassed since the unfortunate Abba Incident and its gleeful Morgana aftermath. “This is a _private conversation.”_

The man failed to look the slightest bit offended, but just nodded wisely. “Not at all, my boy. Not at all. I know how embarrassing these things can be. I shan’t say another word.” He helpfully mimed zipping his mouth shut and then gave Arthur and Merlin a quite unnecessary smile of encouragement.

 _“As I was saying,”_ Arthur went on pointedly, wondering if there was a spell out there to repel mortification. “I think we need to address the public image of witches and wizards and Muggles, not for the whole of society obviously, but certainly to promote better, uh, relations,” he could feel his face getting hotter, “between those areas that might have to interact, like in government circles for example.” Arthur had been practicing that speech aloud in his office and he’d thought it had sounded quite good. Of course in the privacy of his office he had only had to endure Edwin’s insufferable smirking and not images of a certain _other_ kind of relations that were now crowding into his head, thanks to a talking bloody painting. He glared at the old man, but the old man just tapped the side of his nose knowingly. Bastard.

“I think that sounds like a brilliant idea,” Merlin said at once. His legs were still jiggling under the table and from his red face, and the way he kept sneaking looks at Arthur and then down at the table cloth then back to Arthur, Arthur had the horrifying feeling that he too was thinking of Those kinds of ‘relations.’

It was a relief when the swing of a door and approaching footsteps announced Rosa with their meals, breaking what had threatened to be a hideously awkward moment.

“There you are, Minister, my very best Bolognese!” Rosa announced brightly, putting the dish in front of Merlin almost reverently, then she turned to smile at Arthur, who had taken the opportunity to surreptitiously loosen his tie (the room had been getting very warm). “And Penne al Forno, with extra cheese, for you.”

Then she stepped back and eyed the table critically. “Would you like another candle? I have a lovely Horny Goat Weed tealight.” After making this horrifying pronouncement, she winked.

“Oh no, I think we’re alright,” said Merlin for both of them, since Arthur was incapable of doing anything except gape soundlessly. “Maybe just some salt.”

Rosa waved her wand and a beautifully carved salt cellar appeared between them. After at least three more assurances that they were quite alright as they were (all from Merlin, Arthur had yet to recover from the Horny Goat Weed), she bustled around the room, adjusting the curtains and pushing open the window a little more to let the scent of grass and the sound of distant splashing (Arthur suspected the mermaids were awake, a phrase he had never expected to use), before she swept back to the kitchen, closing the door very firmly behind her.

“This looks delicious,” said Merlin into the silence that descended. “Yours especially. Although I’m sure the one you made was delicious too, probably equally delicious. It looked delicious, when I saw it on the television.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Arthur automatically. Merlin picked up his fork and then waited, wearing a small frown of concern when Arthur didn’t immediately start eating. After a beat, Arthur realised he should probably actually try his food, and stop thinking of Horny Goats and mermaids and relations with Merlin. He tentatively tried a forkful, and was relieved to discover that it was in fact far better than anything he had ever managed. Merlin immediately looked reassured and started shovelling in his own Bolognese, though it seemed that was no impediment to talking.

“I’ve been thinking about your idea,” said Merlin, as if Arthur hadn’t mentioned it for the first time a bare three minutes before. “And I think we ought to lead by example. How do you feel about barbeques?”

Arthur swallowed his mouthful of pasta a bit too fast and coughed a little. “I haven’t been to one for years.”

“Really?” Merlin looked shocked. “We have lots of them at the ministry, it’s so hard finding a function room big enough for everyone, and the dragon grills are very popular.”

“You _grill dragons_?” Arthur had tried kangaroo once, but he would draw the line at dragon.

“Of course not!” said Merlin. “They’re the grills - but don’t worry, we have trained Fire Wizards in case they miss.”

“Right,” said Arthur, for want of something more eloquent.

“We’re having one in two weeks,” Merlin went on, fiddling with his spoon. “You could come and meet people. You know, for good-” He stopped suddenly, and there was the briefest of fraught pauses (not to mention a distinct snigger from the painting). “Good, uh, diplomacy,” Merlin finished, awkwardly.

Arthur took a gulp of wine, then put the glass back down a little too hard. “Like an official visit?” he said, just to be clear.

“Exactly,” Merlin nodded.

Arthur noticed that Merlin’s fork had started turning in the spaghetti of its own accord, an unexpected occurrence that served to remind him this was hardly an ordinary back garden barbeque he was agreeing to attend. “Wait, do I need to be formally invited?” If another owl was going to be bursting into his office and making him feel inadequate, Arthur wanted some warning.

“Oh, no,” Merlin said. “I have a plus one, you can come as that.”

That didn’t sound much like an official visit to Arthur, but then again this whole evening wasn’t like any diplomatic meeting Arthur had ever been to either. If it wasn’t for Merlin’s list of Diplomatic Ideas, Arthur would have been really quite suspicious. With that in mind, and because Merlin was smiling at him across the candlelit table and Arthur couldn’t loosen his tie any further without taking it off, he decided to bring the evening back to its proper course.

“What about your own ideas?”

Merlin looked confused, like he’d never had any ideas of his own in his life, before his brow cleared and with a silent ‘oh’ of understanding he retrieved his jotter and propped it up against the large salt cellar, managing a few more mouthfuls of his dinner while he apparently gathered his thoughts. “Well, I’ve been mostly thinking the same.” He smoothed down a page and Arthur wondered if there was any punctuation left at all by this point. “We need to see a lot more of each other, I think, to promote understanding between the wizard and Muggle communities.” Arthur couldn’t help but think that sounded well-rehearsed, perhaps he wasn’t the only one who had been practicing for this evening. The Merlin continued. “Do you still play cricket? I know you used to play at school, I read it in _Arthur: The Path to Power._ I’ve never played it but Lance says it’s very popular in the Muggle world. Apparently he knows some wizards who can play and I thought we could have a match.”

It took Arthur a few seconds to process this sudden flood of information, not least the fact that Merlin had apparently read _The Path to Power_ (which was full of scurrilous Lies, especially the bit about the hamster), but once he had, he indentified a rather pressing issue. “But you just said you’d never played?”

“I haven’t, but I’m sure it can’t be very difficult. I once played keeper for my school Quidditch team.”

“Once?”

“Yes, I lost my helmet and knocked myself out on the goal post. But before that I’d been doing really well, Ron said I did much better than his first time. Besides, Lance said he could teach me the cricket rules.”

Arthur wasn’t sure how he felt about that, Lance was a very busy person and anyway, it needed someone with real skill to introduce a beginner to the sport. He hardly wanted to be responsible for the Minister for Magic receiving a less than successful induction to Muggle pastimes. “Perhaps I could show you,” he said, before he could think better of it.

“Really?” said Merlin, wide eyed. Then he smiled, widely and foolishly, and immediately began rummaging around in what Arthur had accepted now was a magical trouser pocket, pulling out the week planner Arthur had seen at their first meeting. The quill leapt out after and balanced on the table next to it. “I’m free most weekends, especially Sundays, I’m free all day Sundays. We could have dinner too, I’m sure learning cricket makes you hungry.”

“I don’t know when I’ve got a clear afternoon,” said Arthur after a second’s pause (he hadn’t exactly expected his offer to require an immediate decision). “My first few weeks in office are rather busy.” He wasn’t even exaggerating; Morgana had been taunting him with his packed diary all week and claiming he didn’t have a day off until January.

“That’s ok,” Merlin said, not at all daunted by The Diary. “I have a time turner.”

“A what?”

“A time turner. It reverses time. Technically I’m not supposed to use for unofficial business, but I’m sure diplomatic meetings are alright. That way you can teach me cricket and not miss a single one of your Prime Minister appointments.” Merlin looked very pleased with himself.

“You can turn back _time?”_ Arthur was having a bit of trouble moving past that part.

“Only a little bit,” said Merlin, as if that was somehow better.

“You can make me go back in time so I can spend my Sunday afternoons playing cricket?”

Merlin looked at him uncertainly. “...Yes?”

Arthur stared. The fireplace was one thing, then there were the wands and the enchanted planner and the owls, not to mention the restaurant that crossed an international border, and nosy, interfering paintings. But somehow that all paled next to the ability to _travel in time._ It was like finding out Doctor Who was a factual drama. Not that Arthur was a big fan of Doctor Who or anything (however much his DVD collection might suggest otherwise).

“That’s...” Merlin uncertainty shifted to something like worry as Arthur searched for the right word. “That’s incredible,” he said at last, because it really was, and because he could hardly believe Merlin was going to literally make him some time off (take that Morgana!). He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a whole afternoon to himself and been able to spend it doing something he enjoyed. He wondered where he’d stored his cricket gear, and he’d have to find something suitable for Merlin too of course, especially some decent shin pads since he seemed to have a bit of a clumsy streak. “Can you disappear us somewhere again, like earlier? We’d need a good size field, cricket balls can cause a lot of damage you know and we wouldn’t want people seeing us.”

Merlin was looking positively thrilled by Arthur’s enthusiasm. “Of course I can! I know just the place, and I can spell the whole field so no-one will see anything anyway. Are you going to wear your cricket uniform?”

Arthur thought it boded well for their lessons that Merlin had clearly done some research, even if he was calling it a ‘uniform.’ “I shouldn’t think I’d need to, not just for training.”

“Oh,” said Merlin, sounding just slightly disappointed.

“Unless you would prefer me to wear it?” Arthur amended. Merlin was the one making this all possible in the first place and if he wanted to get an idea of how a proper cricket kit looked (probably for the proposed match), Arthur could certainly oblige.

“Yes please,” said Merlin promptly. “The white one, like you were wearing at the county youth championships on the Youtube.”

It took Arthur a moment to work out what he was talking about. The county youth championships had been eleven years ago after all and he hadn’t even realised there were any clips online. Perhaps Merlin was more interested in cricket than he’d thought. Arthur took a hearty swig of his wine. “I’m probably a bit rusty,” he said, already making mental training plans because this was something he _knew_ , after all, something he could be useful at, even if he couldn’t fly, or disappear, or negotiate with gnomes. “It’s been a while, but I’m sure I can get you up to speed, and we can always borrow Lance later, if we have to. I’ll have to send to my father’s for my old cricket bat too.”

Merlin’s quill had started hovering over his planner now, almost bouncing in excitement. “We should probably have quite a few practice sessions,” Merlin was saying, oblivious to the vibrating quill. “Just to make sure I don’t embarrass myself.”

“You can’t be worse than my sister Morgana when she tried, she almost took my head off with her bat!”

Merlin looked a bit nervous. “She’s not coming to training, is she?”

“God, no.” Arthur was fairly sure Morgana spent her weekends plotting his downfall and/or conspiring with Gwen. “You’ll just be stuck with me I’m afraid.”

“That’s okay,” said Merlin, nodding emphatically.

“I know a few keen cricketers too,” Arthur went on, thinking aloud. “Although of course I’ll have to speak to Gaius about the best approach, this isn’t something we can advertise to just anyone and we need to make it a success.” According to Gaius, the existence of the wizarding world was an open secret in Certain Circles, so Arthur hoped it wouldn’t be _too_ difficult to make up a team. Gaius had refused to go into detail of course, but Arthur now had his suspicions about the quite unnecessary number of fireplaces still in use in the Palace of Westminster, not to mention the somewhat dubious All Party Parliamentary Committee for Unexplainable Incidents who apparently didn’t have a phone number or email address and whose office had unexpectedly moved buildings when Arthur had gone looking for it the previous Friday.

He supposed it was all about presenting it to his colleagues in the right way, emphasising the importance of friendship between the two worlds - since Merlin had obviously put so much consideration into it, Arthur could hardly do less.

“I think we should start this weekend,” said Merlin, writing the word ARTHUR in his planner on the appropriate page and underlining it four times. “I’ll bring sandwiches and my camera.” He added a flourish to the last line and closed the book, smiling happily at Arthur before he retrieved his twirling fork and carried on with his dinner. “I should probably get a picture of you in your uniform. For research.”

No doubt Merlin was thinking about his own kit. Arthur nodded and tried to ignore the sudden mental image of Merlin in cricket whites, all dark hair and pale skin (for all he knew mind-reading was a common magical skill). To distract himself (just in case it was), Arthur nodded and hastily scooped up more pasta, taking a large mouthful which he was surprised to discover was still exactly the same temperature as when Rosa first brought it out. Clearly, magic had many uses, and not all of them were designed to knock years off Arthur’s life.

Of course that didn’t stop some of them being extremely annoying, as no sooner had Arthur finished his mouthful and smiled at Merlin (who immediately smiled back and flushed a little), then the plaintive tones of the violin became audible once more, sounding closer than ever. Arthur twisted in his chair and caught a glimpse of a bow hastily disappearing behind a curtain.

“Is it supposed to be doing that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Doing what?” said Merlin.

“That,” said Arthur, as the curtain moved slightly. As if sensing Arthur’s scrutiny, the violin hastily switched to a new piece that sounded oddly familiar. “It’s Bach,” Arthur said after a moment, surprised.

“I don’t think it went anywhere,” Merlin said. “It was probably just playing to some of the other customers.”

There were several muffled snorts from the painting. “No, I mean it’s—” Merlin paused, his fork twirling to a stop. “Never mind,” Arthur finished instead.

Merlin looked worriedly at the violin, then back at Arthur. “Do you want it to go somewhere else?”

Bach’s _Cello Suite No.1_ took on a distinctly mournful air that should not have been able to make Arthur feel as guilty as it did. “Er... no, I’m sure it’s fine.”

Merlin smiled then, pleased, and the violin came out from behind the curtain so fast, the resulting breeze nearly blew out the candle.

“But maybe...” Arthur leaned back, before the sudden proximity of the violin and its bow could take out his eye. “Uh... Maybe not quite so close.” The violin drifted back to what it evidently considered a respectful distance, and resumed playing.

“A wise decision!” said a new voice from the painting. Arthur started and looked round to see a middle aged woman dismounting from a broomstick next to the bishop and the old man, looking rather windswept. “The last time someone sent it away, it played Wee Wizard Winkins at them for two hours until they left. It was horrible.”

Merlin shuddered, and even Arthur had to admit that sounded pretty awful. He had no idea who Wee Wizard Winkins might be, but if he was anything like the odious _Charmkins_ Morgana has been obsessed with when she was eight, then he probably deserved to be erased from existence.

“I must say, I like the candle,” the woman was saying, eyeing it approvingly. “It gives a lovely romantic ambience to the table.”

“It’s not romantic,” Arthur said, beginning to feel a little grumpy about having to stress this point again, especially when the candlelight was managing to accent Merlin’s cheekbones in much the same way as the firelight had done in his office the week before.

“Oh dear,” said the woman sympathetically. “Not going well is it?” She pulled up a chair and sat down. “What have I missed?”

“You haven’t missed—”

The old man interrupted, having apparently been silent long enough. “Not a great deal, Marietta, not a great deal. Young Arthur here is having some trouble in the bedroom department it seems. I’ve offered him some spells but he wants to go the experimental route. I suppose it’s all the rage nowadays, in my day it was a good strong spell and some fire whisky! The Minister is being very understanding about it all.”

“He’s a very understanding young man,” agreed the woman with a fond look at a horror-struck Merlin (even his fork had stopped turning).

“They’re going to have a barbeque!” the old man continued, loudly. “I only hope they will bear in mind what I said about public decency. Times haven’t changed that much, just look at poor Aberforth and the goat, and that difficult incident with the pygmy puff - I’ll never know how they got it out of the drain pipe. Sometimes it is necessary to rein in one’s natural passions.” He nodded sagely. “Also, Arthur’s going to introduce the Minister to his bat — not another of those vampire bats I hope — and the Minister’s planning to take some photos of his young man in his uniform. My good wife always had a soft spot for a man in uniform.” He drifted off nostalgically for a moment, smiling in a way that made Arthur feel quite unwell, before he shook his head as if dragging himself back to the present. “There was some talk of horny goats too, but I couldn’t hear that properly.”

Arthur didn’t know whether to be mortified or impressed at the old man’s interpretation of their evening so far, which was clearly a different evening to the one at which Arthur had been present. After opening and closing his mouth a few times, he managed a weak, “It was a tea light.” Merlin agreed, but it seemed no-one was interested. In fact Arthur noticed that the innkeeper from earlier in the evening had reappeared and was busy passing around what Arthur suspected might be alcohol like this was some sort of spectator event.

“And now they’re just smiling at each other a lot,” the old man boomed, looking disappointed as he accepted a flagon of foamy mead. “I have to say I was expecting more from Muggle courtship rituals. Aren’t there supposed to be flowers and chocolates?” He harrumphed, causing the bishop to roll his eyes not at all subtly.

“It depends on the Muggle,” said the woman knowledgeably, after taking a hearty gulp from a goblet of wine. “Some write poems, you know. Do you write poems?”

The last was directed to Arthur, who shook his head mutely.

“Hmmm,” said the woman. There were a few looks exchanged.

“He writes very good speeches,” Merlin put in, suddenly rediscovering his voice.

“Yes. Thank you,” said Arthur, who was feeling rather inadequate.

“I’m sure when he takes people out, he’s very romantic.” Merlin sounded a little wistful, even to Arthur (who tried not to think of people taking Merlin out).

“Well,” said Arthur uncomfortably, wanting to be strictly accurate on that point. “I don’t know if that’s always true.” Valiant had once told him he was about as romantic as a block of wood. It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t _want_ to be romantic, only that his busy public life meant he more often than not bored his dinner partners to death with his “incessant droning on about politics” (also Valiant). Obviously, he _could_ talk about other things, but even his hobbies weren’t very exciting, apparently.

“I still think he ought to make more of an effort,” the woman was saying, shaking her head. “The Minister is a very sought after young man and I know for a _fact_ that Gwaine from the Department of Magical Artefacts has been asking him out for at least five months.”

“I turned him down though,” said Merlin quickly, with an anxious glance at Arthur.

Arthur was sure it had nothing to do with him who Merlin wanted to go out with; he was only here for the diplomacy. “I’m sure Gwaine is very romantic,” he muttered, because it didn’t bother him in the least.

“He is,” said the woman helpfully. “He was nominated for Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award last year.”

Arthur stabbed a fork into his pasta and ate it with the air of one who Didn’t Care.

“Well Arthur won Best Looking Politician 2010!” Merlin said indignantly. “And he was runner up in Most Fanciable Celebrity on the internets!”

The woman looked Arthur over appraisingly and if Arthur’s face was growing hot, then he blamed it entirely on his still-hot meal. “I don’t think that poll was representative of _all_ the... uh, internets,” he felt bounden to point out.

“I’m sure it was of most of them,” said Merlin stoutly.

“Be that as it may,” said the woman. “A bit of effort goes a long way, and everyone likes a nice poem.”

“Quite so!” said the old man, while the bishop just nodded thoughtfully and then hiccupped (he had an empty flagon by his feet already). “A nice poem and a good strong spell.”

“I bet Gwaine writes lovely poems,” said the woman, with a dreamy smile.

“I’m teaching him to play cricket!” Arthur said loudly. There was a sudden silence as everyone, including Merlin, turned to stare at him. “I mean...” Arthur went on, wishing he’d engaged his brain before opening his mouth. “Not... not like _that_ obviously.” He trailed off, wondering if it was too late to flee over the border to Italy.

“Obviously,” agreed Merlin, only he didn’t sound, or look, very happy about it at all, and Arthur blamed that, coupled no doubt with the copious amounts of wine he had ingested, for making him temporarily abandon what was left of his usual caution and sense of self-preservation.

“Unless...” Arthur was sure he was about to be roundly humiliated but, well, he had had quite a _lot_ of wine and anyway, he didn’t like the sound of this Gwaine person at _all._ “Unless you wanted it to be? Like that, I mean.”

Merlin knocked over his wine glass which banged into the salt cellar and rolled clean off the table. “Oh,” he said, when he had retrieved it and sat back up, hair stuck up every which way from the ministrations of the table cloth. “I hadn’t really thought about it before—”

“Right,” said Arthur, mortified.

“—but okay.”

“What?”

Merlin eager look turned into something a little more like worry. “I said okay. About it being, you know, like that.” He smoothed down his hair (mostly without success). “If that’s okay with you.”

“Right,” said Arthur again, like an idiot. “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” said Merlin, sounding very definite about it.

“I’ve been told I can be quite boring,” said Arthur, because this was the Minister for Magic after all, who rode broomsticks and had magical creatures in his garden. Arthur still got confused by the new photocopier and couldn’t find his way to the Prime Ministerial bathroom.

Merlin looked shocked. “You’re not boring at all. You wrote that article about historic trains.” That was true. Arthur had had quite a few complimentary letters about that article, and he’d always been keen on trains, although he hardly expected a wizard to be familiar with them. However Merlin quickly disabused him of this notion. “I showed it to my friend’s dad and he said he’d never read such an interesting article in his life,” he continued. “He’s got a Muggle train set you know, and ever since we read your article we’ve been trying to make his trains run using _only_ steam.”

Apparently Arthur’s enthusiasm for trains could trump even the shock of having just asked out a man with a broomstick and a talking notepad, because he promptly stopped quietly panicking at his dangerous burst of spontaneity, “ _Only_ steam? What do they normally run on?”

“Magic,” said Merlin matter of factly, “And maybe a little bit of steam.”

That didn’t sound terribly safe to Arthur. “But you can make them go on just steam now?”

“Well,” said Merlin, “Mostly they just melt, but we still have lots of ideas.”

“I see,” said Arthur, making a mental note to hide his limited edition collection of miniature vintage British steam trains.

“Maybe you could come and help?” Merlin said, fiddling with his twirling fork and looking hopeful. Arthur was just opening his mouth to say yes (danger or no, he wasn’t turning down a train related opportunity) when Merlin added all in a rush, “We could go after cricket, as a proper date like you just said.” Arthur couldn’t help but notice that Merlin’s ears were entirely red again (Merlin had very distracting ears).

Arthur coughed and tried to pretend there wasn’t a bishop, an old man, a witch, an innkeeper, several complete strangers and what appeared to be a number of out-of-breath newcomers all watching him avidly from a magical painting, not to mention a wandering chicken and an over-invested violin, as he replied. “That, er, sounds like an excellent plan.” A snigger from the bishop alerted Arthur to the fact that he sounded like a pompous ass, or like Mordred, the Right Honourable Leader of the Opposition, (which was much the same thing). He tried again. “I mean to say, I’d like that very much.” There, that sounded better.

Evidently Merlin thought so, because he was beaming at Arthur again like nothing could make him happier than to spend his Sunday playing Muggle sports and melting train sets with him. It was all most disconcerting.

Arthur risked a smile back, only to have the still-hovering violin burst into a joyful crescendo that trailed away into a mournful squeak when Arthur glared at it.

Merlin seemed oblivious to the interruption. “And you could keep your cricket uniform on all evening if you wanted,” he was saying happily.

“I suppose so,” Arthur said, not really paying attention as he directed one last glance at the violin which had retreated and started playing something suitably apologetic and not at all romantic.

“In fact you could wear it whenever you wanted, I wouldn’t mind at all.” Merlin added, looking really quite enthusiastic about the whole idea.

“Er...okay,” said Arthur.

“You could probably take it off and he wouldn’t mind either,” said a small voice to his right, followed by an outbreak of snorts and suppressed giggles.

Arthur’s head whipped round to see a row of suspiciously innocent faces in what seemed to be an increasingly crowded painting. “Who said that?” he demanded. A host of tiny arms and hands started pointing accusingly at one another, except for one man in a cloak and a pointy hat who had just staggered into the painting clutching a half empty wine bottle and immediately fell over a stray barrel. Arthur scowled. “Don’t you all have something else you should be doing?”

There were numerous head shakings, some more gleeful than others, and the old man with the ear trumpet proclaimed stridently, “I cancelled a game of bridge in _Etchings of Medieval Tuscany_ to be here you know.”

Be that as it may, Arthur was not going to be put off. “Well I would appreciate it if you could stop casting aspersions on the Minister’s comments,” he said, firmly.

“Yes,” Merlin chimed in, looking immensely pleased at Arthur’s defence. “I wouldn’t care if Arthur had it on _or_ off.”

That... wasn’t exactly what Arthur had meant, but he figured it was probably best to present a united front at this point and not give interfering paintings any more ammunition for their wild imaginings. “Right,” he said after slightly too long a pause, remembering to give their onlookers a warning look.

“Although, if you did want to take it off, I—”

“Perhaps we should press on with the diplomatic ideas,” said Arthur hastily. He tried to pretend the laughter that followed was just his imagination.

“Oh yes,” said Merlin, who hadn’t even noticed it. He gazed at Arthur for a few more seconds, and then blinked and turned back to his jotter. “I was thinking that I could make more copies of my handbook,” he said brightly, “for the Muggles who come to the barbeque.”

On second thoughts, maybe this hadn’t been the best plan. “Perhaps we should, uh, work on that one together? Just to tweak a few bits,” Arthur suggested. He was already visualising the likely reaction of governmental officers to green and purple Comic Sans. He had a sneaking suspicion there was some sort of law against it, or at least a strongly worded departmental memo.

Merlin nodded sagely and made a note in his jotter. “You’re right, I should probably take out that Witch Weekly article, I wouldn’t want to mislead anyone.”

“Uh... yes, and that,” Arthur said.

“And I was thinking of a tour,” Merlin added, doodling a little cloud around _TAKE OUT BACHELOR ARTICLE_. “So people can get to know you and learn about Muggles.”

“Like a campaign,” Arthur asked, just to clarify. He could probably manage a campaign, he’d had plenty of practice with those over the past couple of months after all. Just as long as he didn’t have to hold any more babies, they had a distressing tendency to vomit all over him, or at the very least give him the Evil Eye.

“Sort of,” said Merlin, underlining TAKE OUT firmly. “Gaius loved the idea and I already know lots of witches and wizards who want to meet you. Elvina Etherbridge wants to throw you a party. She throws brilliant parties and she knows all about Muggle party foods.”

Arthur would come to that in a second. “Gaius _loved_ the idea?” Out of all the strange things that had happened this evening, somehow that seemed by far the most unlikely.

“Yes, when I told him, he said he was definitely going to have to see that for himself so I’m sure he’ll be along for some of it."

The prospect of Gaius and his disapproving eyebrow following him around Wizarding Britain was a rather alarming one, but Arthur decided he could probably endure it, for the sake of Diplomacy, and because it couldn’t possibly be worse than having Morgana follow him around Muggle Britain for the entirety of the General Election Campaign, criticising his choice of suits. “Where would we be touring, exactly?”

Merlin had taken advantage of Arthur’s brief preoccupation to finish off his Bolognese, but at Arthur’s question he abandoned his fork and began rooting around in his pocket again, finally tugging forth a brown leather bound volume (at some point, Arthur was going to have to ask about those pockets. Since taking Morgana’s fashion advice on Suitable Suits he’d barely been able to fit a hankie and a biro into his trouser pocket, and even then he’d been told off because they spoiled ‘the line’). The volume, Arthur realised as Merlin began flicking through, was a photo album, full of the fascinating moving pictures that Arthur had found in Merlin’s handbook. Unlike the Handbook however, these photos were accompanied by ticket stubs, postcards and newspaper clippings (also moving), affixed haphazardly to the pages and surrounded by Merlin’s favoured green handwriting.

“I’ve got some photos here, so I thought you could choose the places,” Merlin was saying as he turned back to the beginning and smoothed down the paper.

“There seems to be a lot to choose from.” Arthur couldn’t help but notice that Merlin seemed to have bookmarked every other page.

“Well I thought we could do some for the Official Tour and the rest unofficially.”

“By ourselves?” Arthur asked, uncertainly.

“What a good idea!” said Merlin. “We should definitely do that. Can you see the photos from there? Shall I move round?”

“I—”

Arthur didn’t get any further before Merlin stood up and dragged his chair with a loud _screech_ all the way around the table to Arthur, settling it, and himself, comfortably at Arthur’s side and pushing what remained of Arthur’s dinner out of the way so he could put the photo album there instead. “There,” said Merlin, sounding a little flustered. “That’s better. You can see it properly now.”

There was absolutely no reason why Merlin couldn’t have just passed the photo album across the table, but Arthur couldn’t quite bring himself to mention it with Merlin _right there_ , his face flushed rosy in the candlelight and his hand perilously close to Arthur’s on the tablecloth. A series of clatters, scrapes and bumps to his right, accompanied by a great deal of muttering, alerted him to a crowd of small figures similarly relocating themselves and their barrels and chairs to Arthur’s side of the painting, presumably so they could better continue to eavesdrop on a _private conversation_.

“Why don’t you have a look through and see where you want to go,” Merlin said. He reached for his jotter and quill and wrote TOUR PLANS on a fresh page with a small frown of concentration. “I’ll make notes and answer any questions you might have.” He looked at Arthur expectantly and Arthur forcibly dragged his mind away from the very inappropriate thoughts engendered by that small frown and Merlin’s closeness.

He obediently turned over the cover page to find himself face to face with an enormous castle, situated in the kind of stunning location Arthur usually associated with The National Trust. He was fairly sure however that he had never seen this one in his Member’s Handbook.

“That’s Hogwarts,” said Merlin, proving him correct. “It’s where I went to school, it’s over a thousand years old and was—”

“Is that you?” Arthur interrupted, catching sight of a tattered photograph on the opposite page of a small dark haired boy standing in a stone courtyard and wearing a pointy hat, long black robes and a red and orange scarf. He didn’t get to see much more as no sooner had Arthur pointed, then the small boy dashed out of the frame, holding tightly to his hat and leaving a few autumn leaves swirling in the wake of his sudden exit, but the resemblance to Merlin had been marked.

“Oh no, that was... someone else,” Merlin said immediately and in a terribly unconvincing tone. “I’ve forgotten his name.” When Arthur leaned down to get a better look at some of the other photos, several of them group shots, Merlin quickly turned the page, only narrowly missing Arthur’s nose. “Look, here’s a picture of the Quidditch pitch, I’m sure you’ll love Quidditch.”

As it turned out, there were a lot of things Merlin thought Arthur would ‘love’ and his tour plans were soon starting to resemble a six week state visit, which he knew for a _fact_ he didn’t have time for. Obviously he planned to tell Merlin this. He really did. Only Merlin did seem very excited and Arthur clearly had some sort of suppressed Disney fixation (he blamed his Disney-less childhood) because the prospect of dragons and goblins and meeting the Loch Ness Monster (“he’s very friendly,” Merlin told him, “Only he does like to steal your sandwiches so watch out for that.”) wasn’t half as ridiculous and terrifying as it should have been.

Merlin had made two lists on his page, one for official visits and one for unofficial. The former included such items as VISIT THE MINISTRY, VISIT GRINGOTTS, VISIT HOGWARTS, ELVINA’S PARTY and TOUR OF HOGSMEADE. The latter, which was rather longer, included TAKE ARTHUR TO THE HOG’S HEAD (this was a site of National Wizarding Importance according to Merlin, though Arthur was exhorted not to mention that to the landlord because he had a tendency to hex people who did), WATCH CHUDLEY CANNONS (the best team in the Wizarding World apparently and Merlin’s favourite), SEE LOCH NESS (Arthur was determined to hold onto his sandwiches) and TAKE ARTHUR TO THE NATIONAL MUSEUM OF MAGIC (there was a leaflet about this stuck in Merlin’s photo album and it promised Petronella Merryweather’s Patented Historical Recreation Charm - No Actual Time Travel Required, for which Arthur was decidedly thankful). Arthur was just looking at some photos from last year’s summer barbeque and trying to take in the startling sight of Lance in Bermuda shorts and a ‘Holyhead Harpies’ t-shirt when Merlin made an excited noise and hastily added HOGWARTS EXPRESS to the list of Unofficial Visits.

“What’s that?” Arthur asked, tilting his head slightly to read Merlin’s handwriting.

“Ooh I know!” came a voice from the painting, and Arthur looked round to see a man wearing a toga and bouncing up and down on his seat with his hand in the air before he shushed into sulky silence by several of his companions (he seemed to be new to the painting).

“You’ll have to wait and see,” said Merlin, adding a small flourish to the final ‘s’ of express. “But I promise you’ll enjoy it, even more than the Historical Recreation Charm.”

Considering the Historical Recreation Charm listed _Britain in the Deadly Age of Dragons_ as one of its most popular features and warned for Genuine Fire, Arthur thought that was quite likely. “Are you sure we’re going to have time for all these things?” he finally steeled himself to ask. Merlin looked surprised by the question, even though Arthur could distinctly remember a conversation about the limitations of The Diary in the not too distant past. That led Arthur to a worrying thought. “I’m not going to have to reverse time to do all this, am I?” Having two Sunday afternoons was one thing, doing entire weeks over again was quite another.

“Oh no, there’s all sorts of rules about how long you can do it for, and how many times.” Merlin reassured him. “I had three Wednesday afternoons once and it was very confusing, I thought I was late for a meeting but when I got there I was already there.” It took Arthur a moment to work through that one. “I’m sure we’ll only need a few days for the official visits anyway. Gaius said he would help sort things out, as long as it was official and not me wasting Ministry time.” Merlin smiled a bit sheepishly.

Arthur felt like he should say something gallant there, about how he was sure Merlin never wasted ministry time, but he had vowed to lie as little as possible in his Prime Ministerial career (except to Morgana, who didn’t count).

“And then once I’ve learned the cricket rules, we can start going to all the unofficial places,” Merlin went on, surveying his list. “That should keep us busy for ages. Well, for a while. A few months at least, if we go slowly.”

He looked so dejected at the thought of their visits only lasting a few months that Arthur found himself racking his brain for other places Merlin might find interesting. God knows he couldn’t offer anything as exciting as the sandwich-eating Loch Ness Monster but he had asked Merlin out after all (even if he was still a bit shocked about that), so the least he could do was take him somewhere, somewhere better than the charming _Gwaine_ from Magical Artefacts could take him anyway. “Perhaps I could, er, think of some Muggle places for us to visit afterwards,” he suggested, already making plans for extensive googling.

“Really? That would be brilliant!” said Merlin.

“Good,” said Arthur after a moment, rather taken aback by the full force of Merlin’s smile this close up.

Merlin smiled at Arthur a bit longer, then added ARTHUR’S IDEAS to his list and put down his quill, fidgeting a little on his chair. “I think this meeting has been very successful, don’t you?”

If it took Arthur a little while to gather his thoughts, it was only because Merlin seemed to have shifted imperceptibly closer, close enough for Arthur to make out the intricate carvings on the gold of his tie (not that he was looking at his neck or anything). “Uh...” he said, eloquently.

“For diplomacy I mean,” Merlin added.

Right, yes, diplomacy. Arthur pulled himself together. “Yes, it’s been very... diplomatic.” On second thoughts, maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

Fortunately, Merlin appeared oblivious to Arthur’s need to expire immediately from mortification. “I thought so too,” he said, nodding very seriously.

Arthur really wished Merlin would move back a bit. If he kept leaning so close Arthur was going to get Ideas that were entirely inappropriate to a Diplomatic Meeting, even one at which you’d asked out your host and made arrangements to time travel every Sunday afternoon. His heart was already beating uncomfortably fast, and it didn’t help that Merlin was looking at him like that, all attentive and _attractive_ with those stupid cheekbones. If Arthur just moved forward he could almost...

 _“Kiiiiiiiiiss hiiiiiiiim,”_ came a tiny whisper, followed by a few spooky noises and some giggling.

Arthur jerked back and smacked his head on the ornate gilt frame of the painting. That was it! He turned round and glared at an unrepentant crowd. Someone hiccupped loudly. “I am certainly not going to do anything of the sort,” he said, because that was exactly what he had been about to do.

“You’re not?” said Merlin, sounding like someone had just cancelled Christmas.

“Well, no—” Arthur certainly could have phrased that better. “Not- I just meant that this is a _meeting,_ it wouldn’t be... And there’s...” He gestured at the painting in a way that was supposed to convey, ‘a crowd of miniature inebriates spying on our every move’ (it was possible something got lost in the translation). “It just wouldn’t be appropriate,” he finished, lamely.

There were a few sighs from the painting and one quite distinct mutter of, “I can hex him from here, you know.”

“What if we weren’t at a meeting?” Merlin asked, before Arthur had time to be alarmed by this apparent threat (he wasn’t entirely sure what a hex was, but it didn’t sound good). “Would it be alright then?”

Arthur cast a cautious glance at the drunken crowd, even as he replied. “Er... yes, I suppose that would be—” He turned back to Merlin and stopped. “What are you doing?”

Merlin paused in the midst of stacking jotter, photo album, and quill in a haphazard pile in front of him. “Oh, I just noticed the time, it’s getting very late.”

“It’s not even nine!”

“That’s late for me,” said Merlin, catching his tongue firmly between his teeth as he shuffled the teetering pile off the table and into his cavernous pocket. There followed a worrying series of crashes and the sound of splintering glass. “Are you ready to go?”

Arthur blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

“I’m definitely ready,” Merlin went on, giving his stomach a quick pat as though he was about to burst there and then. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“I haven’t quite finished yet,” Arthur retrieved his dish from half way across the table (where Merlin had pushed it), and snatched up his fork before Merlin could disappear them all or something in his sudden enthusiasm for leaving. Was this just because Arthur wouldn’t kiss him? It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to. It was just that there were rules about that sort of thing. Merlin himself had said so last week.

“That’s okay, I can wait for you,” said Merlin, glancing between Arthur and the exit.

Strangely enough, having a wizard and crowd of onlookers watching his every mouthful wasn’t Arthur’s favourite way to eat. He scooped up some pasta rather self consciously and wondered if this was going to be like the time he went for drinks in the Commons Bar with Geraint, his young researcher, only to be unceremoniously dropped when he refused to use his Parliamentary office for distinctly _un_ -parliamentary activities. Maybe Valiant was right, he thought gloomily, and he _was_ boring, although Merlin had seemed interested enough in the trains.

By the second mouthful, Merlin’s leg had started jiggling under the table again, Arthur could feel it practically vibrating his knee. “Shouldn’t you tell Rosa that we’re leaving?” he said at last, when the jiggling got so bad he nearly stabbed himself in the chin with his fork.

Merlin finally stopped watching him chew. “That’s a good idea! I’ll do that now.” Of course, Merlin leaving the table didn’t stop his other audience, several of whom were pulling out pocket watches and checking them in an obnoxiously pointed way (a few of them seemed to be having trouble focusing and one dropped his watch three times and then trod on it).

Arthur managed two more mouthfuls before Rosa emerged from the kitchen with Merlin in a flurry of Italian, beaming happily at Arthur. Apparently she didn’t see anything strange at all in two of her customers leaving when they had barely finished swallowing their food. If anything she seemed to have misunderstood the situation entirely and made several embarrassing comments about the ‘impatience of youth’ and kept winking like she had something in her eye.

All in all, it was not the ending to the meal Arthur had envisaged. Normally he at least got a cup of coffee before he was packed off home but it seemed that wasn’t on offer as no sooner had Arthur put the last bit of Penne al Forno in his mouth then Merlin whisked his plate away, leaving him with only a fork and a very empty table.

“Thank you Rosa! That was delicious,” Merlin said. “Arthur really enjoyed his, didn’t you Arthur?”

Arthur swallowed a bit too soon and coughed. “Uh... yes, it was very-”

“I guess that’s us done then,” Merlin continued. “We’d better be off. Stuff to do and all that. Important wizardly stuff!”

Rosa chuckled and kissed him on the cheek. “Of course, Minister. It was a pleasure to have you here, my best table is always at your disposal!”

“Yes, come back soon!” the Bishop put in loudly. “I haven’t had this much fun since 1826.”

“What about that time the Billywig escaped?” shouted the old man with the ear trumpet.

“Ah yes,” said the Bishop nostalgically. “I’d forgotten that.”

“I’ll say goodnight then,” Rosa went on, as if the brief interruption had never taken place. “And I hope to see you both again soon.”

Arthur thought she might be waiting a long time, considering Merlin suddenly couldn’t wait to be rid of him. Indeed, Merlin was hovering at Arthur’s elbow as if poised to actually drag him bodily from the room. As a result their goodbyes were somewhat rushed and Arthur didn’t even get chance to respond to Rosa’s inexplicable wish for them to have a ‘long and happy life’ as he was chivvied from the table. Merlin barely paused as they passed back through the main restaurant, which now boasted several full tables, and out into the open street and Arthur was almost certainly going to get terrible indigestion from all this rushing about.

“Well that’s that over with then,” Merlin said, when Arthur had barely cleared the door.

“So it seems,” said Arthur, a bit grumpily.

“All finished,” Merlin added, in what was obviously supposed to be a meaningful way.

“I can see that.” Really, Merlin needn’t be so obvious, Arthur wasn’t stupid.

“The end of the meeting.” Merlin bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Arthur said irritably.

Merlin shifted closer and it took Arthur an embarrassingly long moment to realise what he must want. “Right, yes, sorry,” he said at last, taking hold of Merlin’s arm in a totally professional way. “You can, er, disappear us now.”

“What?” said Merlin.

He looked rather disconcerted so Arthur added, “We’d better be quick, I think I can hear people coming.” In fact, what he could hear was a cat rooting around in some dustbins, but he didn’t want to make this any more awkward than it already was.

At his words, Merlin’s expression cleared and he grinned conspiratorially as he dragged Arthur into the shadow of the restaurant. “Don’t worry, they won’t even know we were here!”

Arthur tried to brace himself this time, but he still wasn’t quite prepared for the topsy turvy rush of disappearing and reappearing half way across London. It was all he could do to cling onto Merlin and hope Merlin didn’t take that as a sign to start mopping his brow with that bloody hankie.

When his feet slammed back into concrete it took him a while to recognise the familiar outline of Downing Street, dark as it now was.

“There!” said Merlin, dusting Arthur down with a satisfied air. “No one saw a thing and I even landed us somewhere quiet.”

Actually he’d landed them as far down the street as it was possible to go, creating the very real likelihood that the Prime Minister of Britain was going to have to make a run for it to reach his own front door before a passing tourist could get the photo of a lifetime. He would worry about that in a moment however, for now there was the more pressing issue of Merlin hovering expectantly in front of him, no doubt waiting for Arthur to hurry up and go.

Whatever he had said or done to offend Merlin, Arthur was a minister of Her Majesty’s government and he could handle this in a mature and professional way. Holding out a hand, he said politely, “So this is—”

Arthur’s mature professionalism came to an abrupt halt however when Merlin chose that moment to throw his arms around Arthur’s neck and kiss him like it might be his one and only chance, pressing his body against Arthur’s and tangling his fingers into his shirt collar. There was a moment of confusion as Arthur staggered backwards under Merlin’s weight, arms flailing momentarily before they found purchase on Merlin’s jacket and their momentum took them straight into what had to be the pointiest railings in all of London.

“Ow!” said Arthur, muffled against Merlin’s mouth and Merlin drew away, looking worried.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“Of course you didn’t _hurt me_ ,” Arthur said, because it was a ridiculous suggestion. Then his brain caught up with the more important point, namely that he might, possibly, have misjudged Merlin’s desire to be rid of him. “Hang on, you just kissed me!”

“Yes?” Merlin said, sounding a little unsure now. He was still pressed against Arthur, which was extremely distracting, especially as one of his hands had now slid upwards from Arthur’s shirt collar to rest lightly in the short hairs on the nape, sending a shiver through Arthur’s suddenly overheated skin. “Is... Is that all right?” He added, looking concerned for Arthur’s sanity when Arthur only continued to stare at him like an idiot.

Apparently it was, because Arthur couldn’t bring himself to move away (and not just because he risked being skewered), and he supposed they _were_ going out now. Kind of. Well, enough for Merlin to be pressing him into some railings in the dark not thirty feet from a uniformed police officer. And Merlin _did_ have very distracting ears. And cheekbones. In which case his needing to be in bed by nine o’clock at night was something Arthur was just going to have to get used to. Better him than Gwaine, after all.

He swallowed hard, his hands tightening involuntarily on the back of Merlin’s jacket. “Yes, I suppose it—”

“Oh good,” said Merlin, before he had even finished and got straight back to kissing him with an enthusiasm that left Arthur breathless and which Arthur did his best to match after the first few stunned seconds (and he thought he was doing pretty well actually).

So engrossed were they, that the sudden appearance of a small silver white chipmunk on the railing beside them came as something of a shock. More so when it cleared its throat pointedly and proceeded to speak in Lance’s measured tones.

“Just to warn you, we do have CCTV on the whole street and Morgana is threatening to sell this tape to The Daily Mail and move to the Bahamas with the proceeds.”

It was a measure of just how far Arthur had come in a week, that his shock at the sight of his Chief of Security as a small, glowing rodent was secondary to his fear of Morgana armed with irrefutable blackmail material.

“She can’t do that!” he gasped - because he was shocked, and absolutely not because he had been kissed breathless.

“I should think not!” said Merlin, eyes wide. “They’ve had a terrible infestation of Acromantulas, I read it in the Prophet’s special on Magical Mammal Eaters.” Both Arthur and Lance the Chipmunk turned to look at him. “What?”

Arthur guessed this was something _else_ about Merlin he was just going to have to get used to.

The End.


End file.
